The Vanishing House of Montmartre
by frustratedstudent
Summary: Life post-barricades has Damien Bahorel, the pugilist with a penetrating mind, as one of the Prefecture's newest and more promising detectives. A series of seemingly unrelated murders and disappearances in 1834 takes a darker turn when a foreign journalist is assaulted, leading Bahorel to one of the darkest cases of his career.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I've wanted for a little while to do a detective/police procedural story in this setting. So for anyone who's popping in for the first time, this is a side story set in one of my favourite massive alternate universes, post-barricades/successful revolution. In this reality Bahorel has an interesting occupation in this story...well they all do, but Bahorel as a detective is too good to pass up!_

_Once again, I do not own any characters made by Victor Hugo, or any historical personages mentioned. I do have a lot of OCs here. _

**THE CASE OF THE VANISHING HOUSE OF MONTMARTRE**

**Chapter 1: The Survivor**

"One at the Rue Lavoisier."

"You're a little off to the left. It actually happened at the Rue Saint Nicolas."

Damien Bahorel shook his head. "The body was found at Rue Saint Nicolas but eyewitnesses said that the deed was at the Rue Lavoisier." He weighed a dart in his hand before standing in front of the map of Paris nailed to the far wall of an office at the Prefecture. He expertly threw the dart towards the lower right of the map. "The next incident was at the Barriere de la Rapee. Very brazen," he said as the dart found its mark.

"You need two darts, there was more than one body involved," Thierry Perrot said as he threw another dart at the map. The younger detective frowned at the five darts still lined up on the table in front of them. "Then the next one was a disappearance, no bodies, just a few statements at the Rue St. Louis, at the corner of Rue Poultier."

Bahorel clucked his tongue before flinging a dart at that point on the map. "No rhyme or reason," he said, stepping back to admire the map now dotted with darts of various colors. "No preferences for locations, no common perpetrators, but there is only talk of victims being called on by some elegant personage before vanishing into the dark."

"It is so out of sorts that people think it is Patron-Minette or their associates behind it," Perrot chuckled.

Bahorel shook his head. Claquesous had been killed at the barricade of the Rue de Chanvrerie, Babet and Montparnasse were both living inconspicuously in Toulouse, while Gueleuemer was in prison. Other associates such as Suzette Magnon, Mamselle Miss, Panchaud, and Deux-Millards had all been rounded up in various arrests just before or shortly after the revolution. '_Inevitably someone has taken advantage of that vacuum,' _he thought grimly as he stuck a dart onto the vicinity of the Place Vendome.

Although he was no stranger to violence, the brutality of these recent incidents often turned Bahorel's stomach. _'It's not only the morgue, but it's the faces of those who can't find their loved ones there,' _he thought, recalling the last tearful interview he had with the eyewitnesses at the Barriere de la Rapee. Before he could pick up another dart, he heard the door of the office creak open. "What are you boys doing to that poor map?" a husky but rich voice greeted.

"It's called an investigation, Therese," Bahorel replied, grinning at his mistress wolfishly as he watched her set down a large basket on the one clear spot on a desk. He strode over to her to lift her off her feet and kiss her soundly. "Now what are you doing here?"

"Making sure that my favourite man and my favourite cousin don't starve themselves because they forgot to get breakfast," Therese replied pertly as she smoothed down her rumpled apron. She put her hands akimbo as she looked at the map. "Is this still about all the disappearances and murders?"

Thierry nodded resignedly at his cousin. "Thirty six and counting since the end of spring."

"Still haven't gotten Gisquet and the rest to believe your theory?" Therese asked as she picked up one of the last darts. "They must be related, or at least some of them."

"Gisquet believes that two grand conspiracies are impossible in the span of one year," Bahorel said with undisguised frustration as he flung another dart at the map. Then again, this was the same Prefect of the police who had been confident that he could quash a revolution. '_His keeping his office is only a matter of convenience,' _he thought as he gripped the edge of his desk.

Seeing his agitation, Therese squeezed his arms and dealt him two light blows between his shoulderblades. "All you need is one convincing clue or lead, and he'll have no choice but to consider this," she said.

"My mistress the mind-reader," Bahorel laughed as he relaxed into her touch. There were few people he knew who had a natural aptitude for deduction the way Therese had, or who could wield such a gift with such subtlety so as to catch most people off-guard with its results. It was one of the many things that delighted him during the five years or so that he and Therese had been together.

Meanwhile Thierry rolled his eyes at this blatant scene. "Come on, let's eat. Those sweet words won't feed the two of you," he said as he impatiently reached for the basket that Therese had brought.

"In a moment," Bahorel said, but before he could pull up seats for himself and his companions he heard a more harried knocking on the door. "Who's there?"

"It's me, Potier," a nervous voice greeted breathlessly. In a moment the door opened to reveal the shocked, pallid visage of another one of the Prefecture's junior detectives. Potier managed a cordial nod to Therese before hurrying in to grab Bahorel's arm. "You and Perrot are needed at the Val de Grace, right away."

Bahorel frowned at the mention of this hospital in the Latin Quartier; this institution had been quietly designated as the police's infirmary for witnesses, suspects, or individuals of interest. "For who?"

"The English journalist James Goldberg," Potier replied. "He was found at the Rue de Bellefond, just about two or three hours ago."

"By Hercle! What was he doing there?" Bahorel exclaimed as he got out of his seat, nearly turning the chair over. He had just seen the man the day before, making quite the scene in the vicinity of the Odeon where he'd been unfortunate enough to come across the more artistic denizens of the quartier. '_Perhaps someone took more umbrage than usual,' _he thought. "What else happened?"

"He was receiving visitors last night and he was invited to join one of them at a bistro-"

"Say no more," Thierry said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is getting too much."

Bahorel found a pin on the desk and put it on the map, right at the Rue de Bellefond. "Potier, you must go to the Hotel de Ville and notify Feuilly and our friends at the consulate. They will not be happy to hear this news, but Citizen Goldberg's welfare is still their concern." He clapped Thierry on the back. "Get your coat."

Therese stamped her foot petulantly. "You will go without your breakfast?"

"We will enjoy it while walking," Bahorel said apologetically. "We need your eyes on the map," he added as he handed her the remaining darts and a list of places to mark on the map. "Tell us later or send word if you notice something unusual."

Therese huffed before examining the list and putting a dart right on the Rue du Petit Gentilly. "This will be a quarrel, Damien."

"It is necessary work."

"Not us, I was referring to the consulate."

Bahorel nodded grimly by way of acknowledgment before he kissed Therese and then grabbed his own coat and hat. He walked quickly to where Thierry was frantically looking through some notes. "Forget that. We're in new territory now that someone has come out alive," he said.

Thierry tossed his notes over his shoulder and wiped his brow. "What are we to ask?"

"First we have to make sure that he is even willing and able to talk," Bahorel said as they headed outdoors to hail a fiacre. '_Given how the others were when they were found, it's a wonder that Citizen Goldberg is even alive at all,' _he thought.

Half an hour later, the two inspectors arrived at the Val de Grace hospital, located in a slightly quieter part of the Latin Quartier. Even from the hospital lobby they could hear the ear-splitting shrieks of the place's most recently admitted patient. "He's feverish and delirious, Citizens!" an aide shouted when he caught sight of Bahorel and Thierry. "He's not fit for questioning!"

Bahorel sighed at this statement of the obvious. "Where is his physician?"

The aide winced at the sound of swearing coming from upstairs. "Still busy, as you can hear. I can fetch his assistant."

"I'll talk to him," Thierry said, making a discreet motion upwards.

"Take your time," Bahorel said before letting his colleague talk to the obviously distressed aide. In the meantime he discreetly made his way to a small room at the far end of the hospital's wards, steeling himself against the increasingly frenzied sounds coming from that vicinity. From the doorway he saw four burly men using leather straps to tie Goldberg to the wrought iron bedframe. The journalist was swathed in bandages and bathed in a cold sweat as he raved and howled incoherently against his captors. A harried physician was inspecting a jar of leeches nearby, only to put them down.

Bahorel saluted the physician. "How is he?"

The physician started and then shook his head when he saw Bahorel. "He is of no use in an inquiry when he is in this state, Citizen. You can see that he's been poisoned."

"And you do not know the antidote?"

"The symptoms are unlike anything I have ever seen before. He was unconscious when he was brought in but once he awoke he got more agitated. I have to treat next the people who were hurt when they first tried to treat him."

Bahorel frowned as he considered the injured man as well as his obviously exhausted caretaker. "If you wish, I can bring in a friend who may be of assistance in finding an antidote."

"Yes, yes that would be appreciated," the physician said. "This friend-"

"The chemist-"

"Yes, yes, but isn't he busy at the Sorbonne?"

"He will see the importance of the matter," Bahorel said confidently. "Was there anything notable at the scene when he was found?"

"Only his notebook, but otherwise he was just like any other mauling victim," the doctor said wearily. "I cannot let you take his papers as evidence just yet, but I can let you look at the contents."

Bahorel nodded gratefully. "That would be very helpful, thank you." He glanced towards Goldberg, who'd now screamed himself hoarse and was trying to catch his breath. "How are you doing there, Citizen?" he asked.

Goldberg took a few deep breaths before fixing his blank gaze on Bahorel. "Don't get into a carriage, whatever you do," he said in barely intelligible French.

"A carriage?" Bahorel asked.

Goldberg nodded frantically before looking to his bonds and trying to shake himself loose. "I have to stop them! They'll be around tonight again!"

"Citizen, you have to go. We need to sedate him," the physician called. He laid a hand on Bahorel's shoulder. 'If he gets more agitated his heart might give out."

Bahorel swore under his breath but the sight of Goldberg in a rage once more was more than enough to convince him to step out into the hallway to wait while the physician gave the injured man a dose of laudanum. '_The drug had better not addle him when he wakes,' _he thought.

After a few minutes the physician emerged, this time holding out a tattered pocketbook. "I fear the writing may be undecipherable."

"Better a scrawl than nothing," Bahorel reasoned as he opened the notebook to its latest entry. As he expected the entire text was in English, however this was only a slight difficulty in comparison to the fact that many of the lines were crossed out, smeared with mud or dotted with blood. '_A half-scrawl then,' _he decided as he searched for a pencil in his coat pocket and copied down the more readable portions into his own pocketbook. It would take some work to decipher these garbled words and whatever horrors were hidden in between the inkblots.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: More reviews please? _

**Chapter 2: The Letter**

The more easily decipherable portions of Goldberg's pocketbook formed a sort of schedule encompassing some previous appointments as well as a myriad of others that had to be cancelled owing to the journalist's present condition. '_A man calling on a storm,' _Bahorel thought as he realized that at least six of these meetings were scheduled at the Hotel de Ville. He checked his watch, which now read just past one in the afternoon; by this time he could not expect Therese to accompany him since she had to put in a whole day's work at a dress shop. He heaved a deep sigh before going to the office's cloakroom to change his dark brown morning frock coat in favor of a more brashly cut tailcoat that showed off his striped red waistcoat.

Thierry watched him cautiously and let out a deep sigh. "Don't break anything. I'll send word if the rest of the interrogations turn up anything useful."

"Thank you my good man," Bahorel said as he combed out his dark hair. "I doubt you'll hardly get anything more than a rut of reiteration. Everyone we've questioned so far has lost the trail following Goldberg's stepping into a carriage."

Thierry snorted by way of protest. "I still think this was a vendetta; he got into far too many tiffs yesterday. What do you hope to do at the Hotel de Ville?"

"To find out what brought him here to Paris in the first place," Bahorel replied as he pocketed his watch, his own notebook, as well as a single pistol. While many correspondents frequented government offices and institutions in hopes of becoming the first to chance upon a development or an intrigue, it was rare for a foreign journalist to delve too deeply in places outside of the consulates and official receptions. '_Unless of course it was a less amiable international matter that occupied him,' _he thought a little darkly as he snatched up a crust of bread from his desk and headed out the door.

It was nearly two in the afternoon by the time he arrived at his destination. As soon as he entered the foyer, he caught sight of a familiar figure racing down from the second floor. "It appears you are in need of wings, Feuilly. Should we ask Joly to lend you some?" he called to his friend.

Gilles Feuilly gave Bahorel a look that was both baleful and relieved. "If they can guarantee me entrance to the gallery, yes." He strode forward and seized the detective's arm. "Your man Potier was here this morning with news about the journalist Citizen Goldberg. I heard he's still alive."

"Just barely."

The former fanmaker let out a rueful sigh. "Is he in a safe place?"

"He's under watch," Bahorel replied. Although he knew Feuilly to be among the most prudent of men, he could not say the same for the eavesdroppers that seemed ever present in this hall of power. "What are you hurrying to the assembly for?"

"Because of the matter that has brought Citizen Goldberg to France," Feuilly replied as they began walking to the assembly room. "Did you know that he gave letters of introduction to some commissions and legislators? I know he had one for Enjolras."

"I was present when Citizen Goldberg was _assured_ that the letter would get to Enjolras." Bahorel knew he would not forget for a long time the stupefied look on the critic's face when the latter learned that the woman he had condescendingly ordered to deliver the letter was none other than the wife of the intended recipient of the missive. "As to the contents of the letter, I know nothing of it."

Feuilly shrugged. "What's more important is that Goldberg's particular discipline is that of the inter-coast trade, which happens to be on the agenda of today's assembly."

The detective frowned at this bit of information delivered in that urgent, matter of fact tone Feuilly had used so often to relay more dire news. '_Even the more curious correspondents do not take their business too far from the consulate offices,' _he noted silently. It was also not the usual practice for them to deal directly with other government entities; usually such matters were coursed through the diplomatic corps. "The matter has now turned delicate?"

Feuilly nodded quickly. "Which is why we are needed in the gallery," he said as he pushed open the door just enough to let him and Bahorel into the assembly hall. By this time seats were scarce in the galleries, but the few spectators who stayed on their feet did so for the sake of a better view as opposed to a lack of space. Now and then some comment from the assembly floor below would elicit cheers, catcalls or insults, especially from those seated nearest the rails. It was the best participation one could hope for, since the gallery offered a comparably difficult vantage point. Even when he was on his feet Bahorel had difficulty spotting faces on the assembly floor. '_It's bad when it's difficult to find Enjolras in the crowd,' _he thought, seeing that it took him a little longer than usual to pinpoint his tall golden-haired friend in the crowd of legislators.

As he looked through the gallery he caught sight of a young woman with long auburn hair, seated near one of the gallery's front rows. She was avidly listening to the proceedings, all the while keeping a firm hold on a squirming infant girl with golden curls. The woman turned around after a moment and smiled at the newcomers. "You've just missed the best part of the assembly. We had quite the debate about the curriculums for next year," she greeted them lightly.

"Eponine, I'm sure you know how I prefer to settle debacles," Bahorel quipped.

Feuilly peered curiously at Eponine's daughter, only to receive a quizzical look and a snort from the child. "How does Laure sit through these meetings?" he asked.

"She doesn't. I only brought her with me today since I had to help a bit at the debate," Eponine deadpanned. "You're here about the letter for Antoine?"

Bahorel nodded as he ruffled Laure's hair absent-mindedly. "Did he read it?"

"Yes, and he was quite surprised at it. I s'pose Citizen Goldberg thinks that Antoine knows a lot about the goods and trade with England. Something about the goods coming from China," Eponine replied.

Feuilly hissed, as if his worst suspicions had been confirmed. "Have they discussed anything about trade yet?" he asked.

Eponine shook her head as she continued to bounce her daughter on her lap. "That's next, I s'pose."

"The one good thing left in this situation," Feuilly muttered. He grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil out of his pocket and hurriedly scrawled a few lines. Before he could fold over the note a piercing yell came from one of the entrances to the assembly floor, followed by the commotion produced by several men charging at the deputy who'd just ascended to the podium.

As Bahorel got to his feet, he felt the telltale coldness of a pistol's barrel press up against his spine. Before he could push away his assailant a deafening roar filled the air, forcing the man to drop to the floor, screaming. Bahorel took the opportunity to seize the gunman by his collar and immobilize him against the nearest seat.

"I've been shot! I'm dying!" the man howled as he clutched his unscathed face.

"With what? There was only powder in _that_ pistol," Eponine snapped as she tucked her pistol back into a pocket of her long pelisse. She picked up Laure, who she'd set down before firing the gun, and cuddled the screaming child in an attempt to calm her down. "Do not give me a reason to use my other one."

The gunman shook his head. "You're not getting a word out of me."

"I'm not sure that's the wisest idea, since that your accomplices have also been apprehended," Bahorel said, gesturing to the assembly floor, where more gendarmes had congregated near the podium. "Imagine the things they'd tell about you."

The assailant looked straight at Bahorel. "I thought you were the diplomat."

Eponine and Feuilly burst out laughing on hearing this. "You still would not be safe even if you'd been correct," Feuilly said before signalling to two gendarmes who'd managed to make their way to the galleries. "I believe this is will soon be your jurisdiction," he said to Bahorel.

'_I hope he isn't right,' _Bahorel thought even though he had the sinking feeling that this incident was connected to the Goldberg case. Nevertheless he would still have to establish that this was more than a mere confluence of events. After quickly checking that no one was hurt, he hurried down the stairs to the assembly floor.

Over there he found amid the chaos of panicked spectators and hangers on, a physician attempting to treat a few wounded deputies and clerks, while gendarmes questioned the four men responsible for the commotion in this portion of the session hall. He immediately caught sight of Enjolras mediating a heated argument between two of his more outraged colleagues. "What happened in the gallery?" Enjolras asked by way of greeting.

"A case of mistaken identity," Bahorel said candidly. "Eponine, Laure, and Feuilly are unhurt. They should be down here shortly."

Enjolras nodded, visibly relieved at this news. "Eponine and I were expecting you'd inquire about the letter from Citizen Goldberg," he said more seriously. "How is he?"

"Alive, at a certain hospital. Combeferre is seeing to him," Bahorel replied. "He appears to have been drugged or at least put under the influence of some substance."

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "To render him insensible, no doubt."

"At the very least incoherent," Bahorel said. "Perhaps we should discuss this matter in your office?"

"In five minutes," Enjolras concurred before going to meet Eponine and Laure near the gallery stairs. Bahorel smiled knowingly as he watched Enjolras pick up Laure with one arm while using his free hand to clasp Eponine's. '_Still as decorous as ever,' _the detective noted, though there was evidently concern and protectiveness in his friend's manner. He stepped away from this scene and went to survey the men that the gendarmes had apprehended. None of them were familiar to him, or at least easily recognizable from the sketches that were in the Prefecture's archives. '_Clearly inexperienced though,' _Bahorel realized, seeing that these perpetrators cowered as he passed and did not glare at him defiantly or spit as some of the more seasoned thugs and assassins were wont to do.

After a while he made his way upstairs to Enjolras' office on the second floor, located at the far end of the corridor. When he stepped in he saw Eponine and Enjolras at the room's lone desk, having an eager discussion regarding some documents on the tabletop. Feuilly was seated near the bookshelves, holding Laure on his lap and making faces at her.

"If you aren't careful one of your faces might stick that way," Bahorel teased Feuilly.

"That's silly," Eponine said. She grabbed one of the papers on the desk. "I'm not quite done translating it, but I can give you something of what it means."

Bahorel paused when he saw that the paper was none other than the letter of introduction that Goldberg had given yesterday. "What did he say?"

Eponine smoothed out the paper on the desk. "_To Mr. Enjolras, representative of the Latin Quartier_...never mind, I'll skip the greeting, it's too awkward." Her eyes narrowed as she pointed to a paragraph. "_I have particular information concerning the inter-coastal trade routes from China, which I know involves some of your ports. It would please me greatly and prove to be of much assistance to you if you will allow me to call on you tomorrow at your office in the Hotel de Ville so that I may further enlighten you on the matter._"

"That was almost the same form of the letter that reached the consulate office," Feuilly supplied. "However there was another letter, a threat."

"To do what?" Bahorel asked.

"To cease the discussion regarding the trade going on in Marseille, Calais, Toulon, and several other ports," Feuilly replied.

Enjolras crossed his arms. "That was also what the attackers on the session hall floor said upon interrogation."

Bahorel nodded, knowing now that Enjolras had been among the questioners; the man had a way with words coupled with an almost dangerous curiosity and investigative bent. "Those are the ports the English are most concerned with?"

"Yes. There have been some lapses that have raised alarm in our ports as well as in England," Enjolras said. "A commission was supposed to present its findings today at the plenary, and you saw how that reportage was promptly aborted."

In the meantime Eponine made a clucking sound as she put down the paper. "He went on to mention _goods from Montmartre._ What could he possibly want in Montmartre?" she asked.

"Anything," Bahorel replied. Montmartre was technically a suburb of the city, but included in the legislature for various political reasons. '_A sleepy quartier, the perfect place for mischief,' _he decided. "What else did he say?"

Eponine shook her head. "Nothing. He then closed the letter with good wishes for health, though I doubt he hardly meant it."

"Take the letter with you," Enjolras said to Bahorel. "I don't know if it is admissible as evidence of any sort, but it may lead you to something more material."

"Thank you," Bahorel said as he pocketed the note, already bracing himself for the sleepless night ahead.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who's shown interest so far!_

**Chapter 3: The Missing One**

Bahorel was hardly surprised to return to the Prefecture's headquarters only to find Thierry already away, but was astounded to receive a note from his friend directing him to the Cafe Musain. '_He would not go there unless he had some informant to meet or unless Therese told him to be there,' _he decided as he pocketed the missive. All questions aside, the prospect of returning to this familiar haunt improved on his mood, if only for the fact that the food there had improved over the past year and a half.

Upon arriving at the Musain, he caught sight of the Perrot cousins seated at a corner table with two other friends. "I see that the press has gotten its talons into the matter already, Capital R?" he said by way of greeting.

Laurent Grantaire burst into uproarious laughter. "You are up against Hera's pet with a hundred eyes."

Next to him, his mistress Nicholine Montrose, a plump and rather pert looking lady, only rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "What Laurent means is that we were discussing the most recent events, or whatever it is that happened at the Hotel de Ville."

"An interrupted debate," Bahorel said nonchalantly.

Therese scoffed audibly as she tossed her curls out of her face. "I heard that you were threatened by someone again?"

"No, someone mistook me for Feuilly. It was a good thing that Eponine was there, as well as Feuilly himself, to help me set the record straight for him," Bahorel replied as he took a vacant seat.

Thierry groaned. "That happened while the session was interrupted by a man attacking the deputies? Why is it that when something happens at _that_ building, it inevitably involves one of your friends?"

"I am sure that at least Enjolras has wondered about that before," Grantaire quipped. "I heard too that our English Ulysses has taken part of the fare of the Lotus-Eaters?"

"What he means to say is that Citizen Goldberg was so drugged that his memory was deemed unreliable," Nicholine said.

"Combeferre was with us just a few minutes ago, but he had to return to a meeting at the Sorbonne. He figures that Citizen Goldberg was given some substance to induce hallucinations," Therese explained. "I'm sorry, Damien."

Nevertheless Bahorel could not help but swear under his breath at least till Therese grasped his arm firmly. He gritted his teeth as he met her now grave look; there was no need to put into words his extreme disappointment at this news and its implications on any statement that Goldberg would have to make about the incident. "Then we are down to this clue then," he said at length as he brought out the letter that Enjolras had given him. "Citizen Goldberg was looking into some form of commerce at Montmartre."

"That is what some of his neighbours at the Rue de Bac said too, or at least those neighbours who were willing to have a word with me," Thierry said. "He'd asked them a great deal about the area."

"If he was so interested in Montmartre, why didn't he lodge there himself?" Therese asked.

"A friend of mine works at the house he was lodging in," Nicholine supplied. "An opulent place."

Bahorel nodded, remembering now that till fairly recently Nicholine had worked as a governess, and thus she was no stranger to such grand locales. "Does the owner of that home have any sort of business in Montmartre?"

Nicholine shook her head. "That house is owned by a man who owns ships in Calais."

"Calais on the coast-by Hercle, there may be something there!" Bahorel exclaimed. He laughed on seeing the Perrots' astounded looks. "That may be the link in the chain, my friends."

"A far off link. Even if we send word by the fastest mail coach it may be days till we can pursue any investigation there," Thierry said as he wiped his brow.

'_Too slow,' _Bahorel thought. He looked pointedly at Grantaire, who seemed to be amused at this proceedings. "I know this matter interests you, but this is a police affair."

"Still a story," Grantaire retorted. "Besides the usual means have evaded you I can help you engage others, or at least serve as another pair of eyes."

Thierry groaned again. "Bahorel, you know where I stand on this. You can't keep pulling civilians into our investigations, just like last year."

"And if it weren't for those civilians, no cases would be built and we'd still be hunting down counterrevolutionaries and other gnats," Bahorel argued. '_And I'd be a goner too today,' _he wanted to say, but the gravity in Therese's expression made him remain silent.

He took a sip from a tumbler of brandy as he looked around the cafe. The place was as crowded as ever, perhaps even more so owing to the part that this establishment had played in recent events. There were several groups engaged in avid discussion in some corners, as well as a few persons drifting near the cafe's counter, seemingly nursing their drinks or waiting for more sympathetic company. Outside the cafe, the Place Saint-Michel was bustling with the early evening rush of people hurrying home or perhaps to dinnertime appointments. After a few moments the detective espied in this crowd a pallid young man with a crooked nose, walking in the general direction of the cafe. This familiar face paused, blinked a few times on seeing Bahorel, and then muttered something before hurrying right into the taproom's doorway.

"I knew it was only a matter of time till I'd find you here," Eugene Rossi said breathlessly as he very nearly barrelled into the table's edge. He caught himself at the last moment and blushed deeply when he realized that the ladies were on the point of giggling just from watching him. "I'm sorry for this unseemly manner, Citizennesses."

"No harm done," Therese said merrily. "What is the matter though? Did you run all the way from the Hotel de Ville?"

"It feels like the case," Rossi confessed as he finally found a seat. "I heard you're investigating the disturbance in the assembly today?"

"We're merely interested," Thierry told the legislator.

Bahorel snorted at this understatement, more so when Rossi gave him a perplexed look. "I was closer to the event than I should have been."

"No, you were half the event, while the assembly floor battle was another," Rossi pointed out balefully. "People are saying that the police presence there triggered the attack."

"I was only making an inquiry; I did not even go in uniform or announce myself," Bahorel retorted. He watched Rossi rubbing his temples; clearly some matter was on this former polytechnician's mind. He waited a few moments for Rossi's expression to grow less pained before speaking again. "How are things with your neighbours?" he asked.

"Neighbors?"

"At Montmartre."

Rossi looked around, as if he was afraid he'd be overheard. "Is it true that the English journalist was investigating something in that area?"

"He was," Bahorel said before Thierry could cut in. "He was interested in some businesses."

"Which ones?" Rossi asked in a perplexed voice. "There has been a rise of new establishments-mostly foodstuffs and dry goods now that there's more trade coming in from the ports. Those all go through the customs office, naturally. Unless you're implying that it isn't the only form of trade taking place..."

At that exact moment a loud thud came from outside the cafe, just in the square. This was followed by the cacophony of shouts and footsteps that could only mean the beginning of a scuffle. Bahorel ran out of the cafe and nearly stumbled on some passersby trying to seek refuge in the taproom. "Let me through!" he shouted as he leapt past them, towards the rising din in the square. At that moment he saw someone being pulled into a fiacre, which then careened down towards Rue St. Hyacinthe at the far end of the Place Saint-Michel.

"Catch him if he goes to the Rue Saint Thomas!" Thierry shouted to Therese and Nicholine before rushing after the fiacre, half-dragging poor Rossi with him.

In the meantime Grantaire was already sprinting down the Rue de Gres, prompting Bahorel to head in that general direction. '_If they are headed to the Place du Pantheon, they'll bring a crowd upon them,' _he realized. The Place du Pantheon was not only a favourite meeting place among the students and ever present radicals of the Latin Quartier, but it was also a sort of rookery for some of the more politically astute and controversial newshounds. There was no chance for such a vehicle to pass by completely unnoticed.

Suddenly Grantaire let out a curse. "He's headed towards the Sorbonne!" he shouted as the fiacre took a sharp turn ahead of them.

"That goose!" Bahorel muttered as they scrambled after the vehicle. Despite the growing cramp in his legs he willed himself to keep up the pursuit, even as the carriage hurtled down the Rue des Macons, then suddenly turned back in the direction of the boulevard before detouring down yet another side street. For a moment he wondered if the fiacre driver meant to lead him and Grantaire in circles, but he pushed that thought out of his mind as he tried to keep the carriage in his line of sight.

At that moment he heard a footstep to his left, and he barely had time to block the cudgel aimed right for his head. Bahorel quickly dealt a right hook to his attacker's face, but suddenly a vise-like grip wrapped around his shoulders, wrestling him to the ground and pinioning his hands behind his back. In the darkness, he could not get his bearings; it was impossible for him to land a blow when his assailant seemed to have suddenly grown a myriad of limbs all set on pinning him to the ground. From seemingly afar he heard Grantaire curse before running back towards him, but before he could call out to his friend, something clammy seemed to grab him, pulling him down into the darkness.

It seemed like an eternity passed before a sliver of light pierced through the fog in Bahorel's vision. "Bahorel, wake up!" another familiar voice called to him.

"Combeferre?" Bahorel groaned. His eyelids felt as heavy as lead but he finally succeeded in forcing his eyes open in an effort to locate his friend's voice. It took a moment for him to realize that he was actually lying on a pallet, placed next to a bed in a vaguely familiar room. He turned to his left and noticed a slender hand in his line of sight and craned his neck to see Therese still fast asleep on the bed. Her hair had somehow escaped its usual knotted coiffure and was falling in unruly curls all over her pale cheeks. '_Is she ill?' _ Bahorel wondered worriedly as he sat up to get a better look at her.

"Take it easy there," Combeferre chided, now stepping in to prop Bahorel up. The dark haired physician was haggard, as if he had been up all night. "You might feel nauseous, but that's probably only a lingering effect of the drug."

"Drug?" Bahorel repeated. It took a moment for him to recall the struggle in the alley and how he was so easily rendered insensible. He wrinkled his nose as he realized that a slightly sweet, earthy scent still lingered on his clothes. "Where am I?" he asked Combeferre.

"Rue Ferou," Combeferre replied as he began checking his friend over. "Joly sent for me to help you all out once he realized you were drugged."

Bahorel nodded confusedly even as he became aware of other voices coming from the next room; he could already recognize Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet conversing with Nicholine, who sounded hysterical. "He found us?"

"Bossuet found Rossi first. It didn't take long for him to get help; thankfully Prouvaire and Azelma were still at home and were able to help out. Azelma was the one who found you; whoever was after you was intent on concealing you, for some reason," Combeferre said. He went over to take Therese's pulse and sighed with relief. "Rossi and Thierry are still asleep though," he remarked in an undertone.

Bahorel sat up straight. "And Grantaire?"

Combeferre looked him in the face. "When did you last see him?"

"Right before I was knocked out, two feet away from me," Bahorel replied. He grasped Combeferre's wrist. "Where is he?"

"Bahorel, you were the only one who Azelma found last night near the Place Saint-Andre," Combeferre replied. "I fear that whoever assaulted you has also snatched Grantaire."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Here we go!_

**Chapter 4: The Hill of Martyrs**

"We saw you behind those crates on that stoop there. Someone stashed you there, knowing that most people would miss you."

Bahorel managed to nod as he looked towards the dank alley where he'd apparently spent some portion of the previous hours. "How did you know where to find me?"

"Ponine and I have hidden things before," Azelma replied as she tossed her long dark braid behind her shoulders. "Things smaller than you at least."

The detective chuckled before stepping away to inspect the nook to one side of the Place Saint-Andre. He knew better than to expect to find tracks, clothing, or any sort of material evidence from his perpetrators, given that it was already half past ten in the morning. All he needed was to see enough of the place to reconstruct what may have transpired there. It was a disturbingly small space, so cramped to the point that he was sure he could not quite fit there without contorting his body in an almost impossible fashion. '_No wonder these bones ache a bit,' _he thought ruefully as he rubbed his back, where he could still feel some sort of a crick from his uncomfortable evening. "Who else was with you?"

"Just a few other friends. None of the bystanders were of help or knew much, and you can see that this is not a nest for beggars who can tell you things," the young woman said.

Bahorel nodded again, remembering that this was a neighbourhood of printing houses and bookshops, without a single restaurant in sight. "How did you get here? Could you please start from the beginning?"

"Azelma and I were about to leave for dinner when Bossuet showed up," Jean Prouvaire chimed in from where he was now standing beside his wife. The poet adjusted his floppy hat and tucked a pamphlet under his arm before continuing, "He said he'd found Rossi out at the Luxembourg, and another bystander had found Nicholine too, not far away. Nicholine was the one who said there was an attack on all of you, before she swooned as well."

'_They probably did not mean to drug Nicholine at least,' _Bahorel realized. It would account too for the woman's more rapid recovery the next morning. "Who else helped?"

"All our neighbours," Azelma said. "They were the only ones on hand too. Everyone was searching up as far as the Pantheon, but I guessed you might have gone the other way past the Sorbonne."

'_A sensible direction,' _Bahorel decided. Going west towards the Invalides would have attracted attention from the Rue de Babylone garrison, while heading south would have brought one in the neighbourhood of several hospitals and artisans' lodges, an unsuitable location for concealing a person assaulted after working hours. He could only count himself lucky that his assailants did not see it fit to bring him as far as the Pont Saint-Michel and the Seine. "Around what time did you find me?"

"Half past eight. Bossuet came to us some time around seven," Azelma answered. She wrung her hands as she looked at Bahorel again. "I wish we'd been earlier so we might have been able to find Grantaire."

"I highly doubt that would have made a difference; we were accosted a good way from here, nearer the boulevard perhaps," Bahorel replied. "Two minutes away from the Place Saint-Michel at most."

"Nevertheless, why would you have to be carried this far instead of being left someplace nearer?" Jean Prouvaire asked.

"Because it's messy to _maquiller_ anyone in a uniform or with a police card," Azelma explained to him. "The most that can be done is to give them a good pinch."

Jean Prouvaire nodded at this bloody terminology. "Not to Grantaire. He will not allow it."

'_He would rather suffer harm than give up any of us to his captors. All the more then we must find him soon,' _Bahorel mused. He turned to look at the two Prouvaires. "Thank you for your help. I do not wish to keep you both from your nobler pursuits today."

"What nobler thing is there than saving the life of a friend?" Jean Prouvaire answered. "We're ready to help again if necessary."

Bahorel sighed, knowing better than to dissuade this pair. Although they at times seemed awkward or even unassuming, the truth was that Jean and Azelma Prouvaire were among the most intrepid and resourceful persons that he had the good fortune to know. '_It may be best for them to stay away, so counting on them is tantamount to extreme unction,' _he decided before taking his leave of his friends.

By the time he arrived at the Prefecture, the headquarters was in an uproar, judging from the voices that could be heard even from the entry way, and the sight of a nervous Potier waiting in the foyer. "You have to stay out of Gisquet's way; he's furious," Potier warned Bahorel. "Another kidnapped journalist, a drugged agent, and several other civilians involved..."

"Perhaps Gisquet could tell me why none of our agents on patrol found us, and that part fell to civilians," Bahorel fumed.

Potier swallowed hard. "All the patrols were occupied last night; to begin with there was a drunken brawl in the Marais and an attempt at arson in Chaillot, on top of the usual work of the night watch. However Citizen Feuilly was here an hour ago, with papers he left specifically for you to see. Is this about the Hotel de Ville incident?"

"Possibly," Bahorel said, knowing better than to confirm or deny anything to do with that debacle.

Potier whistled. "How is Thierry? Will he be on his feet soon?"

"Maybe by this afternoon. You can ask for him at the Rue Ferou," Bahorel replied. '_Hopefully the same can be said for Therese and Rossi,' _he thought worriedly as he made his way to his small office. He managed a smile on seeing that the place was in the same chaos that he and his friends had left it in the day before, more so when he spotted a folio teetering on top of a pile of papers. Attached to this was a missive sealed with a thumbprint.

Bahorel quickly unfolded this letter and came across these words:

_Dear friend,_

_I hope you and the others are well and thoroughly recovered from your ordeal. I learned about what happened from Courfeyrac, who had the details of course from Combeferre, Joly and Bossuet. While I do not have any news or information concerning Grantaire's whereabouts, I have found something that may help you should you choose to pursue your investigation in Montmartre. _

_Many of the new shops in Montmartre specialize in items traded from overseas; goods traded by Spain, England, Prussia, Sweden, Denmark, and even as far as Russia, have found a new market in the district. I believe this is because Montmartre has become more populous ever since the move to incorporate the suburb as Paris' fifth legislative district, and because new establishments may have a difficulty making a foothold in the heart of Paris. Goods are brought in through the usual channels of our Customs office, but it is not unheard of for some proprietors to make direct arrangements with traders to bypass all that paperwork, trouble, and of course our tariffs. _

_Enclosed here is a summary of goods traded and sold in Montmartre, as well as their ports of entry and the shops that are permitted to carry these items. Accompanying this are some articles concerning intermediate stops and middlemen concerned with the routes that pass through France but terminate in England. These documents passed through the Hotel de Ville and were translated. _

_Please let me know right away if I may be of further assistance, especially in locating our friend. _

_Yours sincerely,_

_G. Feuilly_

The folder that accompanied this note was rather thick; Bahorel reckoned that it would take him the better part of a leisurely day to thoroughly peruse all its contents. '_Feuilly, Enjolras, and Eponine must have worked on this almost from the hour I left them at the Hotel de Ville,' _he thought as he quickly leafed through the documents. He decided to start with the first names and places mentioned in these papers; once Thierry was on his feet again they would divide up the rest of the list.

After leaving a few notes for his colleagues and partaking of a few bites of bread and some strong coffee, he left the Prefecture's headquarters and returned home to fetch a second greatcoat that did not bear the Prefecture insignia. After this, he took an omnibus bound for the Boulevard Poissoiniere at the end of the Les Halles district. He then found another smaller omnibus that brought him past the neighbourhood of the Prison Saint-Lazare, all the way to the Barriere Poissoniere beyond the Rue du Delta. He did not exit the barriere via carriage, but instead alighted and went on foot out the neighbouring Barriere Rochechuart, which opened out on a steep path leading towards a hill. This height featured a large white church surrounded by new villas and freshly paved streets winding around some shops and a few tiny cafes.

As Bahorel approached a fork in the path, he caught sight of three figures waiting for them there. "I told you two to go home," he said a little crossly to the Prouvaires, who waved to him first. "And what are you doing here too, Bossuet?" he addressed their companion.

"A noble pursuit, as he would say," Bossuet replied, gesturing to Jean Prouvaire.

"Besides it's against the Prefecture's regulations to work alone," Azelma said. "I've never seen you policemen do that."

Bahorel sighed deeply as he looked at Jean Prouvaire. "How did you know I was headed here?"

Jean Prouvaire blushed. "There was talk at the Musain-"

"Someone eavesdropped?" Bahorel asked.

Before Jean Prouvaire could explain, a scream cut through the mid-morning air.


End file.
